3rd Row
by lulugal
Summary: Naomi has spent years imagining what it would be like to call Emily her own. She may finally have her chance.
1. Chapter 1: Interruptions

**Author's Note: **So, this is my attempt at creating my own peice of Naomily goodness. I'm not sure how long it will be, or how long it will take to churn out of my head. Hopefully not too long. I pretty much have scriptmanip and niceoneBlondie to thank for my sudden burst of inspiration. I thoroughly enjoyed reading their work, and hope someone out there enjoys mine.

* I do not own skins... which still breaks my heart, but I'm taking it one day at a time.

* * *

Your breath is ragged, catching with every brush of her tongue. Her rhythm is slow, back and forth, with just enough pressure to almost send you over the fucking edge. You reach your arm up and back to grab hold of the headboard, for fear you actually will manage to fall off some invisible cliff that's materialised in your bed. She moans into you, the vibrations of which seem to ricochet through your body. She moans again, louder this time, and you feel it ripple through you. When she does it the third time, louder still, with more force and urgency, it damn near tears you at the seams. You're so fucking close. The pace quickens, you're almost there.

"Grab my balls!" Wait. What?

Your eyes snap open, hand stilled in the elastic of your knickers, the vision of red hair splayed over your stomach dissolving as the sounds of sex drifts up the hallway and into your room. Your arm drops from the headboard and you run your hand through your hair with so much agitation you're sure you've pulled out a sizable clump of strands. You focus on catching your breath because you're sure your lungs are trying their hardest to break free from your chest.

"_Fuck _sake." You're kicking the sheets off and sliding out of the empty bed, stomping through your room like a girl on a fucking mission. Frustration building with every step. "Well fucking sick of this shit!"

You trudge the short distance up the hall to the offending door, hearing the unmistakable sounds of a full-blown shag-a-thon coming from the other side. You pound your fist on the door like you're right fucking mental.

"COOK! Fucking _Christ_. Keep the volume down to a minimum, yeah! Not everyone wants to hear whatever Slag you've got in there test her fucking vocal range!" Which is followed by the moans of a woman having what could only be described a rather intense orgasm. You hammer on the door for several more seconds for good measure. You hear the door knob turn and step back. The door whips open revealing Cook, standing in the doorway, shirtless and wearing and toothy grin.

"Alright, Blondie?" He says while zipping up his fly, looking bloody pleased with himself. "Didn't mean to disturb you Naoms. Was just finishing up a little job I started last night." You hear the soft rustlings of his latest conquest from behind him. _No doubt trying to find her trashy outfit from last night._

Peering over his shoulder you can only just make out the shoulder length auburn hair in the dim lighting, caused by the early morning sun trying to break through the curtains. She pulls her top on and turns around. You damn near choke as she walks towards the door, and stands behind Cook, her face coming into full view.

"Thanks for a great time Babe. Next time don't make me, like, wait all fucking night for it. I have got a fucking life, you know." She pushes past Cook and stands in front of you with a scowl on her face. You stand there in shock, looking like a proper mong. "Are you gonna, like, move or what? I've got places to fucking be."

"Right." You move a step to the left, letting her pass. "Sorry." You watch after her as she heads down the hallway towards the front door. Once you hear it swing open then shut you turn towards Cook, who is watching you expectantly.

"Katie Fitch. You're fucking Katie Fitch now? Katie _fucking _Fitch!" He's laughing now, which only fuels your disgust in the whole situation. "Cook, for Christ sake. How the fuck can you honestly think this is ok?"

"I don't think about it, Blondie. I just do it. Less stress that way." He flashes a cheesy grin and waits for the next onslaught of criticism.

Just when you thought your level of frustration couldn't get any higher than being interrupted while rubbing one out. Then you're thinking of her again, seeing the red hair and feeling your face grow hot with the memory. Too bad you never got to finish. You were so fucking close. _Fucking Cook!_

"Blondie?" Hearing your name snaps you out of the moment you were creating in your head again. "You alright? You look a little red." He's smiling now. _Why's he smiling?_ "If I didn't know any better, I'd say that's the shade of pink that comes only from, well…cumming." He's laughing now, the kind of laugh that sounds like a howl, a noise only Cook could produce. "What have you been up to this morning?"

"Oh fuck off!" You flip him the finger. "Fucking perv." He howls again and heads off down the hall, strutting like he owns the fucking world. "And don't think I'm going to let this go, Cook." You call after him. "Fucking Katie Fitch is a bad idea."

"Don't be so sure about that Blondie." He turns around to face you, continuing down the hall away from you, walking backwards now. "She's fucking mint. Can't get a better shag than a Fitch, yeah?" He turns again and heads for the front door, throwing out another howl just to piss you off, you suspect. _No, I can't imagine there is a better shag than with a Fitch, but Katie's not it._ And that red hair flashes through your mind again.

You head back to your room in defeat, kicking the door shut with your foot. You sit on the end of the bed and think about picking up where you left off earlier, then you remember the look on Cook's face when he called you out on your extracurricular activities. _Mood killer, that is. Fucking Cook!_


	2. Chapter 2: First Impressions

**Author's Note: **So, this chapter is about as long as the first, sorry. Trying to work on longer chapters, but it's tricky with time constraints, and all. I hope you enjoy.

* * *

You're sat in the 4th row, as usual, trying desperately to focus on whatever information it is your Professor is trying to inject into your brain. You're supposed to be looking at the boards at the front of the room, taking notes, listening intently. You know - learning. But all you can focus on is the red hair in front of you. That smooth blanket of red that drapes over her slight shoulders and catches the light in a way that steals your breath. It's all you can do, not to reach out and touch it. To run your fingers through it and feel the softness envelope them. Every day you sit behind her, and every day you try to work up the courage to speak to her.

_God, it feels like college for Christ sake. Two years later and nothing's bloody changed. If you don't talk to her, Naomi, how the fuck is she supposed to know you exist. Might as well change your hobbies on future job applications to 'Stalker', since that's pretty much the path you're headed down._

Sighing heavily, you think of Cook, and the envy he sparks in you. The ease with which he picks up girls is completely ludicrous. You try to recall a time that he's never managed to pull, and find yourself unsuccessful.

_Makes a fucking sport out of it, he does. Should put it in the Olympics, he'd win gold for sure. Least then he would have accomplished something in his life._

You chastise yourself for thinking badly of your best mate, even though you find yourself, quite often, wondering why you two are even friends in the first place. But you love him, all the same. And it's really not his fault you can't pull.

You somehow managed to tear your eyes off the back of her head during your inner monologue and find yourself scanning the large, high-ceilinged room. Your Professor, down the front on a small stage, trying in vain to lecture you on Comparative Politics. The chairs, encasing him in a semi-circle that rises up a steep slope, are filled with the bodies of either over-enthusiastic academics or those with the glazed-over looks of perpetual boredom. The later of which, you deduce, is the majority.

You sweep your eyes back to your Professor and assess him for a moment, in his stereotypical tweed jacket, with his greying beard and dejected, droning voice. You wonder just how long he's been doing this, repeating himself every year to a room full of disinterested youth, for the most part, and wonder what it must be like. To spend your better years lending other people the skills to go forth and live the life you failed to achieve for yourself, or so you assume, for as the saying goes, _Those who can't do, Teach._ You wonder what he must see when he looks to the class. You imagine it must seem like the French Alps or something, the students; the mountain, their potential; the snow. And it would feel like your just waiting for the avalanche to cascade down and bury you alive in your own failings.

You shiver with the thought, shaking your head slightly and tell yourself, _You sound fucking mad, and he_ _probably has a really nice life, and fucks his wife like a rockstar every night_. You still can't help but wonder though.

In your peripheral vision you catch sight of movement and snap your eyes back to the form sitting in front and just below you. Your knees centred at the back of her chair. She slowly tucks a strand of hair behind her ear as she looks down to her notepad and starts writing.

And you can't believe it, that you find yourself almost 20 fucking years old and you still can't speak to this girl in front of you. You've spent so much time agonising over what you would say, that before you knew it, you had developed this intense fucking fear of being around her. Of saying the wrong thing, and her telling you to, '_Fuck off' _Or worse, her actually accepting your advances. Because you know the only thing that could ever truly bring you undone, is within reach, and running her hand through that luscious red mane of hers.

_Fuck sake, Naomi. Get your shit together._

You're determined to focus on your studies now. You look down at your notepad and see the complete lack of notes and berate yourself silently, flicking your pen between your fingers. You see her trail her hand through her hair again, trying to tame that unruly strand, and your eyes are on her, like magnets. The pen you have been swinging through your fingers falls to the floor and rolls forward.

"Oh, fucking _Christ_!" You spit out in a harsh whisper as you lean forward to retrieve it, your face centimetres from her hair. You notice two things in quick succession; her hair smells amazing; and she is turning her head in your direction, due to your less than quiet outburst.

You're frozen then, as she looks over her shoulder and up at you, these deep brown eyes that look somewhat confused as she surveys you. You, being this person before her who can't seem to move or speak, and is probably a bit too close for comfort.

"Do you need some help?" Her voice is raspy and soft at the same time.

_How the fuck is that even possible?_ You're pondering this when you hear that intoxicating sound again.

"Hello?" Her eyes have changed to cautious now because you've lost the ability to fucking function, and you're probably scaring the shit out of her.

You somehow manage to take control of your body again and grab the pen that's on the ground at your fingertips and hold it up between you. Still not speaking, because you've clearly gone fucking retarded or something.

She looks at the pen and realisation dawns on her as she moves her eyes back to yours, the corners of her mouth turning up in a small smile. And it's the most brilliant sight you've ever seen. Her eyes sort of twinkle, and her lips look so soft, and her hair looks - and smells, you remember - incredible. And your brain has just fried.

_Fucking pull yourself together!_

She leans forward a little so she can twist her body to the side and face you better without breaking her neck. Her hands resting on the top of her chair. Smiling that sweet smile. And you still can't fucking move. You're just kind of sitting there, bent over, holding this pen in front of your face like a fucking mong, your eyes like saucers and your mouth slightly agape.

"Hi, I'm Emily." Her voice is softer now, yet still maintains that horsiness that sends tingles through your body, namely south.

The sound of it floods your brain and fills your senses. That husky and unbearably sexy voice. After all these years that sound still brings you to your knees, even more so now that it's directed at you. You're relieved you are sitting because you're certain you'd be a heaped mess of limbs on the floor right now if you weren't. You can't move, can't think, can't fucking breathe. She raises an eyebrow as she waits for a response that you feel you'll never muster up.

_Just construct a cunting sentence. She thinks you're fucking mental!_

All you can do is breathe out the one word that has consumed your thoughts for as long as you can remember.

"Emily."


	3. Chapter 3: Salutations

**Author's Note: **So, I almost got to work late this morning, because I had to get most of this out. Then set about spending my entire day adding to it in my head. This is the end result. A little longer, as I hoped it would be. I promise to make the next one longer. Now I've made the commitment I have to stick with it - maybe I shouldn't have said anything. Thank you all for your reviews, they seriously make my friggin day. RedHeadedTemptress, you said you would like to know where this story is headed - that makes two of us. It just kind of lets pieces of itself appear to me as the days progress. Hopefully I can pump another chapter out soon. And hopefully those bloody horizontal lines I've put in will stop playing silly buggers with me and stay put.

With that said - ENJOY!

* * *

Smooth,_ Naomi, really fucking smooth!_

She chuckles softly at your retarded response, barely breathing it out because you are, after all, sitting in a lecture hall.

And it's the most beautiful thing you've ever heard. You're quite sure you could easily spend the rest of your existence listening to only that sound. You just stare at her, completely mute, like you have no memory of the English language. Her eyes soften as she appears to take you in. And what a sight you must be. Wide eyes and frozen solid, like a deer caught in headlights, waiting for the Mack truck to collide with you.

In a hushed voice, she asks, "You're Naomi, right?" She pauses, squints her eyes to think for a second, then adds. "Campbell, yeah? Naomi Campbell?" She looks at you expectantly.

And there's the proverbial truck, smashing into your chest and knocking the air from your lungs.

_She knows you're fucking name!_

You blink several times and somehow manage to shut your mouth after what feels like hours, swallowing hard to moisten your tongue that's gone as dry as the sodding Sahara. You straighten up a little, so you're not so hunched like fucking Quasimodo. You do your best to stay as close to those radiant, brown eyes as you can, but mostly just so she can hear you. At least, that's what you tell yourself.

She looks so perfect, in this moment, her hair falling lightly on her shoulders, with a smile that could tear your chest open. She's so small, she manages to somehow slide her left leg up onto her seat, to better turn around to face you. Her chin now rests on her knee and she's laughing again, that soft hum that soothes your brain into a trance. She's watching you, waiting for your reply, somewhat amused. Finally, your brain kicks into gear.

"Uh - yeah." You're coughing now, like you've just choked on your saliva. Feeling like a right fucking idiot, you manage to pull your shit together and form a coherent response. "Yeah – Naomi - that's me, Naomi Campbell. I'm," You look down and cough again, a flush of pink spreading over your cheeks. "Naomi Campbell". You manage to stutter out.

_Sodding cunt! She knows your fucking name, you don't have to repeat it a thousand bloody times._

You curse to yourself, thoroughly pissed off that you've finally found your chance to speak to her and you're stumbling through it like you've suddenly gone brain dead. The pink hue on your cheeks darkening.

"Yeah, I thought it was you." She says with a tilt of her head. "You went to Roundview, yeah?"

"Yeah – yeah I did." Your smile returns. "We were in different forms."

"God, that feels like a lifetime ago." She looks off to the distance reminiscing. "Those were some crazy days." Her eyes are on yours once more, that kind smile drawing you in.

You flash back to your days at college. To images of you and Cook sneaking spliffs in the corridors and chugging beers at Uncle Keith's pub every other night. You still have no fucking idea how you managed to get all A's in your final exams.

You're back in the moment now, and trying to find a way to draw out the conversation. You're thinking of something remotely cool to say, even though that's never been your strong suit, and all you come up with is, "It's Fitch, right?" Even though you, clearly, already know her last name.

_Oh yeah, ask her what her last name is, that'll really sweep her off her feet. For fuck sake!_

She nods, reaching her right hand out to you over the back of her seat. You pause for a moment, looking at her tiny hand, almost as if you're confused by the gesture, or maybe your brain has just farted again - it seems to be doing that a lot lately. You slowly take her hand and can't help but notice how perfectly it fits into yours as you gently shake it.

"Well, now we've been properly introduced." Her hand lingers in yours as she looks back over her shoulder towards the front of the class, then back to you. "We should, you know, get back to work though."

"Oh, right." You look around, suddenly realising you had forgotten you were still in class.

"I, uh, sort of need my hand back to do that, though." She says with a smile and raise of her eyebrows.

"Oh." You look down at your intertwined hands sheepishly. "Yeah, I would imagine that would help the process immensely." You add, as you release her hand, and find yourself missing the contact instantly.

"Thanks."

She's sliding her leg back down and turning to face the front of the room as she takes one last look at you over her shoulder.

"It was nice to meet you, Naomi." She says, as she flashes that smile one last time.

* * *

The rest of your day goes by in a brilliant haze. You're so caught up in replaying your brief conversation that it takes you 20 minutes to realise you have wandered into the wrong, bloody classroom. The second time this happens, you decide to call it quits and head home, starting your weekend early. You'll get notes off someone else on Monday.

* * *

You've just closed the front door of your cosy, two bedroom apartment, when you hear the sounds of someone rustling about in the kitchen. You pop your head around the corner and are met with the wide, toothy grin of Cook.

"Blondie! Just in time. I'd like you to meet the lads. This is Johnny, Jack, Jim and Jose." He waves his hand to the counter behind him, lined up on the surface are four bottles of liquor – the lads.

"So, just a quiet night in then?" You say as you eye the bottles.

"Just You, Me and my favourite letter of the alphabet." He waits for your possible decline, but instead grins from ear to ear – again - as you reply.

"Fuck it. I feel like celebrating." As you drop your bag onto the dining table, you add, "Cook, don't be a shit host, introduce me to Jose, will you."

He howls and hastily pours two tequila shots and hands one to you, that you swallow immediately, screwing your face up as you feel the burn travel down your throat. Slamming the empty shot glass on the table, you demand another, which he dutifully provides.

* * *

As the warmth of your sixth shot – or is it your seventh – spreads through your body, and the buzz you've been feeling grows steadily into full-blown intoxication, Cook falls into the sofa beside you, mimicking your sloppy position.

"So, Naomikins, you never did say what you were celebrating." He asks, with a lazy smile painted on his face.

"She spoke to me." You say, with your face full of wonder.

The memory of this has you grinning like a maniac, as your head falls back against the sofa. You can really feel the alcohol coursing through you now, and with it comes the urge to share every detail with your best mate. You give him a play-by-play of the entire encounter, grinning smugly, rightly pleased with yourself.

Cook's thunderous laugh tears you from your reverie.

You snap your head in his direction, and feel the room spin slightly because of it, frowning.

"What's so funny?" You demand, irritated.

"Well, fook me Blondie, but it's not like you nailed her or anything, is it." He says, raising his eyebrows. "You barely introduced yourself – actually, she introduced _you_ to _herself_." He's laughing again now, mouth wide, baring all his teeth.

"Oh, fuck off." You elbow him in the chest.

"Oi - easy." Dropping his hand from your shoulder to rub his ribs, he manages to reel in his chuckles. "But honestly, Naoms, we have to figure out where to take it from here."

"We?" You raise one eyebrow, probably because you're too smashed to lift both.

"Well someone has to help you get your fingers wet, don't they?"

"Oh fucking _Christ_, Cook!" Your elbow finds his ribs again. "You're fucking filthy!"

"Yeah - I've been told that a lot." He says proudly, rubbing his ribs again.

You ponder his statement, then hastily add, "Besides, I've told you before, I don't want your help getting laid. Thank you, very much."

"So when was the last time you travelled South for the winter, ay?" He asks, wiggling his eyebrows.

Rolling your eyes you think about that for a moment, before he answers for you.

"Three months, Mate."

"No, it hasn't!" You knit your eyebrows together in the best scowl you can muster.

"Three months." He says with a small, knowing nod.

"What – are you, like, keeping track of my exploits or something. That's fucking twisted Cook – even for you."

He laughs again, "Well one of us fooking has to. It's pretty clear you've dropped the ball on this one, yeah."

_Surely it hasn't been that fucking long? Has it?_

He wraps his arm around you again and squeezes you to his side, tightly.

"What you need, is a friend with benefits." He smiles down at you. "Take me for example. On the nights when I can't be fooked putting in the effort to go out fishing, I make a quick phone call, and the fish come to me."

"I don't need a beneficial friend, Cook." You rolls your eyes.

His eyes brighten as he adds, "I could lend you one of mine if you like? That could help you out"

"No, fucking thanks, Cook." You say, waving your hands. "I'm still having trouble repressing the memories of the last time you _helped me out_." You place your thumb and forefinger to your eyelids for dramatic effect.

"Oh, come on Blondie. It wasn't that bad."

"You slipped MDMA into my drink, and practically threw the girl on me, for fuck sake." You glare at him.

"Well I had to do something, didn't I?" He throws his arms up in exasperation. "My balls were going blue just out of sympathy for you. And blue's not a good colour on me, Naoms"

"You locked me in the fucking room with her!"

"Had to be done, Mate." He smiles coyly. "Besides, you weren't complaining for long."

"Fuck you, Cook! It was the fucking drugs, alright." You feel the crimson spread over your cheeks from embarrassment.

"Use whatever excuse you want, but you enjoyed yourself that night."

"She was fucking mental, you know." You say as you stare at the ceiling, pulling the memories from the far corners of your mind, where you hid them. "She kept shouting, 'This is wizzer!' – whatever the fuck that means?" You shake your head as you look back to Cook, and say, "I don't know where you fucking find them."

He laughs merrily as he replies, "Ah, Blondie – the crazy ones are always the best shags."

A thought dawns on you, then. "Are you talking about Katie Fitch, per chance?"

His smile is all the response you need.

"So is this, like, a fucking permanent thing now, is it?" You're working your scowl up again. "I can't believe you, Cook!"

"She's not as bad as you think."

"Care to wager on that?" You say quietly to yourself.

He stands and walks toward the counter for another refill. Holding the bottle up and raising his eyebrows to you, in a silent offer of more booze. To which you shake your head, and feel the room spin, driving home the reason you declined. A sudden realisation hits you, and a smile graces your lips.

"What?" Cook asks, smiling himself, as he pours his tenth shot of the night. "Out with it, then."

"Well, I just had a thought." You stop talking mid-sentence and continue forming your vision.

"Yeah, I figured as much." He looks at you expectantly before raising his eyebrows and waving his hands. "Care to share, Mate?"

"Well," you continue again, "I'm pretty sure I just made a new friend today - one that I foresee as having the potential of being very beneficial. Which means that You and I could very well have ourselves a matching set off, _friends_. Complete with said benefits." You smile proudly at your new discovery.

"I think you're missing one minor detail in the way of you nabbing that little ginger-snap, Blondie." He answers with a chuckle, and the chug of his shot.

"Yeah, what's that?" You say defiantly.

"Her boyfriend."


	4. Chapter 4: Hallucination

**Author's Note:** I intended it to be longer, but I just had to end it where I did. You'll understand when you get to it. It is longer than the last, as promised... not by too much though. I'm sorry, I know, you want more. But hey, each chapter is getting longer than the last, so there is hope. Enjoy.

* * *

"Her what?" You ask, taken aback.

"Her _boyfriend_." Cooks states slowly, eyeing you from across the room.

You blink rapidly, trying to make sense of this new information.

_She can't have a boyfriend. No – no fucking way._

"You're fucking with me, right?" You almost plead.

"Sorry, Naoms." He says with a small shake of his head.

_No – It's not true._

"I don't believe you." You say defiantly, shaking your head, as you look out the window and see the sun dipping low in the sky. "How do you know?" Your eyes drift back to Cook. "Besides," You pause for a second, deep in thought. "I've never even seen her with a guy."

He chuckles lightly. "Oh – right. I forgot you keep tabs on her."

You shoot daggers at him with your eyes.

"I'm no a fucking stalker, Cook!" You yell, pointing your finger at him, then cross your arms over your chest in a huff.

"Easy, Blondie." He waves his hands in surrender. "Just taking the piss."

"Yeah - thanks, Cook." You say with a scowl. "I really appreciate it."

"No worries, Mate." He replies with another chuckle.

"So, you still haven't told me how you came across this information." You raise your eyebrows and wait, arms still crossed, as Cook pours himself another shot and tips it into his mouth.

He places the glass down and turns to face you, leaning the small of his back against the counter, his forearms resting on the edge on either side of him.

"Katie told me."

"Katie?" You repeat, incredulously.

"Yeah. She told me the last time we – "

"Thanks!" You interrupt him, holding a hand up. "I don't need the fucking visual."

"Suit yourself." He says with a wide grin. "But you're missing out."

"Sure I am." You roll your eyes. "So – that's your idea of pillow talk, then? Discussing the girl you're fucking's, sister?" You ask with one eyebrow raised, a smirk creeping onto your face.

"Well, it's not like I started the fooking conversation." He says, with a scowl of his own now.

"So, what did she say exactly?" You ask, all joking gone, hoping it turns out to be some kind of gross misunderstanding.

"Oh, fook, Blondie." He says looking to the ceiling. "I can't remember it all."

"Please, Cook." You beg. "Just give me something."

He looks at you and sighs. "Alright, alright." Looking to the ceiling again, in concentration, he says, "She said something about this guy that Emily was with years ago, coming back into the picture recently" He looks at you with sympathy.

Your heart sinks.

"Right." You say quietly.

Your eyes drop to the floor as your shoulders slump and your eyebrows loosely knit together.

_She's straight._

You sigh heavily and shake your head, causing the room to spin violently.

_I'm going to be sick!_

"You alright, Naoms? Cook comes over and crouches in front of you, resting his hand lightly on your shoulder, concern etched on his face.

You look him in the eye and request the only thing that can help this situation.

"I need a fucking drink!"

He smiles his boyish grin and makes his way to the counter, grabs the tequila and a shot glass, and heads back towards you. He takes a seat next to you, fills the tiny glass and hands it to you.

"Thanks." You say as you bypass the shot glass and pull the bottle from his hand, taking a long swig.

"Easy, Mate." He says, taping the bottle gripped firmly in your hand. "Jose takes no prisoners."

"Right." You say quietly as you glance down at the bottle.

You take another swig and hand it back to Cook as you look around your flat. At the opened liquor bottles strewn across the counter that separates your quaint kitchen from your lounge room. At the magazines piled haphazardly on the coffee table, the one that Cook pushes to the side of the room every time he drinks to prevent him from stubbing his toe in his drunken stupor. You look at the near-invisible stain on the carpet where you spilt a glass of Pinot Grigio, last New Years. And at the photos hung on the walls – walls that feel as though they are closing in on you. Suddenly this space that feels so safe to you, so comforting - is too fucking small.

"Let's go out!" You practically shout, causing Cook to jump slightly, and look at you stunned.

"You sure, Blondie?" He asks, confirming, as the smile slowly spreads across his face.

You stand up quickly, forgetting, momentarily, just how drunk you are. Your legs wobble beneath you for a second as you turn to Cook.

"Yes, I'm fucking sure. I need to forget this day ever happened. And you are going to help me." You head off down the hall to your bedroom, calling over your shoulder to Cook. "Get dressed. We leave in ten."

* * *

Thirty-five minutes later, after you hastily threw together an outfit, traced on some eyeliner and touched up your mascara, you're following Cook through the doors to the club that he frequents, trying desperately to forget about Emily and this boyfriend of hers.

The sound hits you like a wave as you enter. The music forcing thoughts of Emily from your mind as you delve deeper into the crowded room. The lights are dim, and the air, thick with body heat.

_Perfect._

Cook carves his way through the mass of bodies, to the VIP room, as you follow along the constricted path he creates. The bouncer guarding the entrance to the room takes one look at you and Cook and steps to the side.

He turns to Cook. "Been a while, Mate" He shouts over the music.

"Yeah. Been doing the rounds." Cook yells back. "Gotta share the Cookie." He adds with his arms out wide.

"No doubt." The bouncer replies with a chuckle. "Well, have a good one." He says as he opens the door.

"Cheers, Mate." Says Cook, as he claps the man on the shoulder and enters the room.

You enter the room to find it has the same lighting as the main dance floor, but the music is a decibel, or two, lower. As you look around you notice there are booths lining the side walls, and a bar along the back. There is also a lot fewer people crashing into you, and inadvertently showering you in their sweat. In all, it still has that same clubbing feel to it, without the irritation factor.

Your eyes are still scanning the space when you notice Cook throw his arms in the air and make a bee-line for the booth in the farthest corner. You wander after him and hesitate, only for the briefest of moments, as she looks at you. Those penetrating, blue eyes, that cut through you like razors. She's sat at the booth alone, with a cigarette perched lightly between her fingers, motionless, except for the smoke wafting gently around her. Her eyes shift from you to Cook.

"Princess." He says with a nod of his head.

"Cook." Her eyes turn back to you. "Naomi." She moves her eyes, pointedly, down the length of your body and back up again. You can almost feel your skin slicing under her scrutiny. Then, in a sort of casual statement, she adds, "You look like shit." Before taking a drag of her cigarette and letting the smoke flow from her parted lips.

"Always a pleasure, Effy." You say with feigned politeness. "You know just what to say to make a girl feel special."

She merely shrugs, so slightly you could almost miss it, with a bored expression on her face.

"So." Her eyes target Cook now, as he callously tries to peek a glance up her near-non-existent skirt. "What can I do for you?"

"Well," He somehow manages to tear his eyes away from her thighs. "Blondie here," he says tilting his head towards you briefly. "Wants to rid herself of the last six hours of her life. And I thought, who better to help, than you."

She eyes you again, completely bored with the situation, it seems.

"So, you're in need of supplies?" She places the cigarette to her lips again, slowly pulling the smoke into her lungs, her eyes still on you, burning through you.

"You bet, Love." Cook answers for you, with a smile.

"What's your toxin, then?" She looks to Cook, finally, and you can't help but feel relieved.

"Whatever you've got."

She reaches for her purse that's nestled beside her smooth thigh, opens the black, leather pouch and removes a small, clear bag, filled with three white pills. She leans forward, holding it between her index and middle fingers, and hands it to Cook over the table.

He takes the bag, exchanging it for cash.

"Cheers, Princess." He says as he opens it and removes a pill, holding it out to you. "Ladies first."

You hold out your hand, and he drops it onto your palm. Eyeing the tiny object, you look from Cook to Effy, a silent question in your eyes.

"It's alright, it's just MDMA." She answers flatly, reading your mind.

You take a moment to decide if you really want to do this.

_Fuck it!_

You pop the pill into your mouth as Effy hands you her vodka and coke to wash it down. Cook proceeds to do the same, followed by Effy. It's been a long time since you've had the drug, at least a couple of years. The last time was when Cook spiked your drink and locked you in a room with some head-case. You shudder at the thought. Then decide to buy a drink to kill time while the drugs kick in.

On your way back from the bar, you see a vaguely familiar-looking girl with blonde hair bobbing her way towards your booth. You reach the table a few seconds later and stand next to her as she shouts.

"Effy, this place is brill!" She practically jumps up and down, she's so excited, like a fucking kid at Disneyland. "The DJ played the song I wanted and everything."

She hadn't noticed you standing there until Effy looks at you, talking to the girl, "You remember Naomi, don't you Panda?" A small smirk gracing her lips.

You're confused now, because you're sure you've never met this girl before.

"I'm sorry – I don't think – "

"Oh, wizzer!" She shouts, cutting you off mid-sentence. "I haven't seen you since we did the funky gibbon that time." She's grinning like a fucking mental patient.

"The what?" You ask, thoroughly lost, until you realise you've heard that before.

_Wizzer - you know that, Naomi._

The drugs are kicking in and your mind is spacing.

_How do you know that?_

Suddenly memories of you ferociously kissing a girl in a darkened room appear in your mind. Horrid images of you tearing each others clothes off in a drug-induced state.

"You probably don't remember much." She says, with a dopey smile. "You were pretty wasted."

_Oh, fuck!_

Your stomach drops as you realise just who this girl is. You look to Effy, who's looking at you with mild amusement, then to Cook, who is starting to howl with laughter.

You place your drink on the table and say, "Cook! A fucking word, please." As you reach past Panda and grab his arm, dragging him over to the bar.

"Oi – Easy, Blondie." He says with a wide smile.

"Cook. What the _fuck_!" You fume. "I can_not_ be here with that girl!" You look at him with panic.

"It's alright, Mate." He says, soothing.

"No, it's fucking not!" You shout as your voice pitches higher. "You know what happened last time I was on drugs around her, Cook." You say with an accusing tone. "I can't fucking do that again. Not with her." You look over Cook's shoulder as you eye the girl, then back to him "She's fucking mental."

"_Jesus_, Blondie." He says with one eyebrow raised. "Didn't realise she was that fooking bad in the sack."

"That's not what I fucking meant." You scowl at him.

"So she is good then?" He says with a grin as he looks over his shoulder at the girl.

"That's not – Cook!" You slap him, hard, on the arm, getting his attention. "_Fuck _sake!"

"Sorry, Naoms." He says with a chuckle, as he turns back to you. "Look. I promise I'll do my best to prevent you from dipping your fingers tonight, yeah."

You cringe at his choice of words and sigh heavily, feeling the effects of the drugs building.

"You fucking better." You point your finger in his face, threatening, before heading back to the booth.

On the way over you see Panda twirling around wildly with her arms outstretched, like she's playing a part in Singing In The _fucking_ Rain. You lock eyes with Cook, mouthing, 'Fucking mental', and he smiles in understanding.

The moment you reach the table Panda stops spinning and grabs your arm.

"We should dance!" She shouts, right in your face, like she doesn't realise just how close you really are to her.

The drugs are coursing through you now. The music is reverberating off the walls and into your body, your heart beating in time with the bass. Your breathing quickens and your mind floats. You need to move – to dance. You need to be surrounded by an ocean of bodies, moving with the beat. You grab your drink and down it in one go, slamming the empty glass back on the table.

_Fuck it._

You take Panda's hand off your arm and hold it in yours, pulling her behind you, heading out the door toward the dance floor.

Once on the floor, crushed up amongst a sea of strangers, you face Panda and let the music move you. You raise your arms above your head, close your eyes – and feel. Feel the rhythm, feel the heat, feel Panda's hands on your hips. Not a thought in your mind. You stay like this for what seems like an eternity.

You open your eyes and see Panda smiling back at you. You return the gesture, feeling euphoric, as you turn around, letting Panda press up against your back, her hands finding your hips again. You close your eyes and cover her hands with yours, sliding them up to your stomach, losing yourself in the moment.

You open your eyes and look around, unfocussed. Then you see it - a flash of red in the distance.

_Emily!_

You tear Panda's hands off your body and start pushing through the condensed crowd.

"Emily!" You scream over the music. "EMILY!"

You search for her frantically, unsure as why you are in such a panic. You just know that you have to find her - have to tell her how you feel. You turn around in circles, glancing left and right, searching endlessly. The beat of the music quickens, the strobe lights pulse faster and faster.

Suddenly you feel a hand softly touch your shoulder and you spin around.

_Emily._

The intensity of the strobe lights, coupled with the drugs, cause your eyes to remain unfocused. The intermittent flashes forcing you to close your eyes continually.

"There's so much I want to tell you!" You shout over the music. "I just – I don't know - " You squint your eyes as you try to open them and look at her. "I know you have a boyfriend – but I just fucking can't –"

_Oh, fucking hell__!_

You can't form a sentence, so you do the only thing you can think of. You kiss her.

And it's completely – _not_ - everything you thought it would be.

It's erratic and forced. She pushes her tongue into your mouth, causing you to almost gag. You grab her shoulders and shove her away from you, holding her at arms length. Blinking excessively, you allow your eyes to adjust. The strobes have ceased, and in the opaque light you slowly focus on the girl standing before you. The red hair you expected to see has been replaced with blonde. Those deep, brown eyes you longed to look into are blue and wide with anticipation.

"Oh, wizzer!" Shouts Panda. "We're gonna make monkey again."

Your face morphs from confusion to sheer terror.

"Oh _Fu - "_

You don't get a chance to finish, as darkness envelopes you, and the drugs take over.

* * *

Pain.

That's the first sensation you become aware of. Your head feels like it has an axe buried in it. You can feel the warmth of the sun shining onto you as you slowly gain consciousness. You roll onto your back and carefully place a hand on your head, making sure there really isn't a fucking axe there. Your ears are ringing slightly, your mouth is dry, and your teeth feel like there is a layer of fur on them.

_Jesus fucking Christ!_

You haven't attempted to open your eyes yet, sensing that the sun will be a bit too much for you right now. As you lay there, mustering the energy to get up, you hear a strange noise mixed in with the ringing. You focus your ears on the sound. It's a soft hum at first, but it gradually gets louder as you concentrate. And you realise at once what it is – snoring.

You carefully peel open your eyes, squinting painfully as the sun burns into them. Once you have adjusted to the light, you turn your head apprehensively and hold your breath, scared at what you will find.

You can't believe your eyes. Your heart rate increases as you start to panic.

_No!_

You close them tightly and pray that when you open them, the image will be gone.

It's not.

Her blonde hair is splayed over the pillow, her naked back facing up. The sheet resting just below the small of her back, with her right arm and leg hanging off the bed. Facing away from you and snoring like a fucking locomotive is,

_Panda!_

"COOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOK!"


End file.
